breuckelen
by withoutaim
Summary: Brooklyn's name suits him, and in several aspects; garland/brooklyn, depending on interpretation/amount of squinting


title; breuckelen (with a promise of mending)  
fandom; beyblade  
rating; light PG-13?  
**disclaimer; do not own blabla, everything totally copyright of the dude creating beyblade, who is japanese and who's name is aoki something or whatever, my memory's still not that good.**

_summary; Brooklyn's name suits him, and in several aspects._

So shoot me, because I have no idea if you spell Breuckelen with "ck" or if it's only "k". Anyway, I stumbled over the song, and while I actually thought of writing something TyKa to it, the "ever green park" bit got the best of me, because it reminded me so of Brooklyn. Short stuff, but eh.

* * *

"_It's just like him__  
__to wander off in the ever green park__  
__slowly searching…"_  
–saosin; you're not alone

* * *

The last of the sunset is spilling onto the ground in a finality of sorts. Orange and peach and yellow speckles splatter the never ending sky, and Brooklyn's almost lost in it all. It's only the white coat trailing lazily after his legs that discerns him from natural scenery; otherwise he's right in there with the trembling, buried beneath the surface fire and fiery mane of hair. The golden ring in his ear's glinting with the shivering reflection of the sky at the sea, and his eyes as deep going as it, Garland's sure.

He's still wearing it, despite the battle having worn him out. To the untrained eye Brooklyn may have been at peace, his clothes torn and dirtied because he was too tired to exchange them, his bones rattling lightly underneath goose bumped skin because of the sea salt breeze and nothing else. But Garland knows better.

Brooklyn is bruised and bloody and his hair matted not only outwards, but there are still the final waves of denial spilling over inwards, the grand finale of a storm in his organs, a voice whispering on the inside of his brain, telling him, telling him that he lost, over and over again, that it's not fair, that it's _wrong_. And there are spider lily webs tracing the whites of his eyes, as though he's cried although Garland knows that he hasn't, he hasn't in a long time. And that's why he's so sure that they stem from the depths of a heart beating frantically in Brooklyn's ribcage, finally letting go of insecurities and pitch black despair that once threatened to get the best of him. He hasn't changed his clothes because he's not yet over it completely, and his muscles are coiling because he's lost, still lost in himself.

"Garland." There are two syllables in his name, Garland knows. It's quite the silly name actually, a dumb and old fashioned way of putting those two syllables together, but he doesn't really mind. Brooklyn's name is better, it suits him oddly, Garland supposes that it's because it means broken land. Brooklyn's never really been whole, not up until now. But that's not why he feels so at ease when he says it, it's his voice. Garland specializes in martial arts and beyblading, not psychology, but he doesn't need to be an expert to read Brooklyn's voice. It's coarse, battered and beaten, scarred with broken into two parts words and strangled laughs, hoarse because of the amount of shattered screaming and quiet, quiet from the ever remaining bits of childhood isolation that has permanently marked him.

Brooklyn's name suits him, and in several aspects.

"Yeah, Brooklyn?" Garland takes a moment, tastes it on his tongue and lets it slip on his lips, steps closer to him. Brooklyn doesn't turn; Garland doesn't expect him to, anyway.

"I lost." But there's a kind of contentment in his tone, as though peace is roaming around and looking for a good place to settle down in it. And he can tell by it that the sea is calming down, slowly but surely. Or perhaps the sky, Brooklyn always would've likened himself more to the sky rather than the ocean. He was a bird, rather than a creature of the sea.

But, it wasn't until now that he'd come to flap his wings and aim for higher, instead of lower.

"You won, in your own sense." This grabs his attention, and he twists his head to meet Garland's gaze, his eyes widening slightly underneath his fringe. He's got a faint, faint urge to brush it from them, but knows better than to actually do it. Brooklyn's got to start wrapping himself up, doing those small things for himself, mend before other people can start breaking through to him.

But Brooklyn smiles, and it's not frail and fractured or anything, it's a small, whole smile kicking at the corners of his lips. "Yeah I, guess so…" He answers. And Garland knows that he can't expect any lesser from him, no matter how beaten up he might be inside, this is _Brooklyn_. He'll have to do some soul searching, spend time alone, come to it at his own pace, things like that. He overheard the coach Kinomiya, and he understands that. But, he wants Brooklyn to know he's there, nonetheless.

"Hey Brooklyn?" The blader's once again turned his head to study the rustling leaves and wiry trunks bordering to the black cliffside and beach on the other side of the forest. He doesn't turn at Garland's call, but nods solemnly, and Garland can sense the final clouds dissipating, allowing that sun of his own that everybody knows from some short time during their life, to peek forward.

"I'm…" But this time, Brooklyn spins around completely, and the small smile's there again. Garland trails off, doesn't say it. Doesn't need to, Brooklyn knows anyway. He's known since Takao saved him, known since Garland helped him remain standing and helped him smile, helped flexing his fingers slightly at the younger blader who saluted him with gleeful mock Brooklyn didn't quite seem to understand but accepted regardless.

"Thank you." He answers, and Garland thinks with a quiet serene expression settling on his cheekbones and in his brow, that this jailbird has escaped its prison.


End file.
